"…The fainting eyelids droop, and giddy Fear Thrusts with both hands the soul towards the pit Where, like a Lazarus from his winding-sheet, arises from the gulf of sleep a ghost Of an old passion, long since loved and lost.”
excerpt from Charles Baudelaire’s ‘The Flask’ (Le Flacon) from “Flowers of Evil (Les Fleurs du Mal)”
think about dropping all plans and moving to a bright white apartment in Stockholm or Oxford or brown natural apartment in Venezia over a stream blowing kisses at gondoliers passing below just feel good
dress like a zara look book eat oatmeal and seeds never fret never sob
music all the time. breezes all the time. shag rugs black trainers blazers thin button ups. trousers, never pants
jumpers jumpers jumpers
no more sirens no more cities that are all noise slow the pace down slow ride down dopamine up serotonin up
WRITING ALL THE TIME
It means some teenagers care more about protecting their phones than their actual bodies that cannot be replaced .
Thanks, but I understood what the thing was saying, which is why I was baffled by the complete stupidity of it. I guess most important is that if ~teenagers~ are not educated on sexual matters that’s very unfortunate, it is a problem, one they don’t deserve to be blamed for. Also, the whole “this generation…” crowd so present in that post is so committed to trying to point out perceived problems with teens that they make sweeping generalizations while trying to be superior about the generation most of you tumblrers belong to. Why not be a little more sympathetic about these issues?
Also also, your sexual health DOES NOT equate to a fucking case on a fucking $200+ cell phone. Repeat: your sexual health ≠ an iPhone case.
seems to me the people that reblogged that and agree with it seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding of sex. it was a stupid “analogy”.
There was a person in me — a piece of me — however you want to describe it — so damaged that she was prepared to see me dead to find peace.
That part of me, living alone, hidden, in a filthy abandoned lair, had always been able to stage a raid on the rest of the territory. My violent rages, my destructive behaviour, my own need to destroy love and trust, just as love and trust had been destroyed for me. My sexual recklessness — not liberation. The fact that I did not value myself. I was always ready to jump off the roof of my own life. Didn’t that have a romance to it? Wasn’t that the creative spirit unbounded?
No. Creativity is on the side of health — it isn’t the thing that drives us mad; it is the capacity in us that tries to save us from madness. The lost furious vicious child living alone in the bottom bog wasn’t the creative Jeanette — she was the war casualty. She was the sacrifice. She hated me. She hated life.
”—Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? (via narratrix)
"but listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness.."
It’s getting into my dreams now last night he was callous with me and happy with his new girlfriend, months after I thought he was a shining light after an identical situation, after a dark wind of a boy dropped me off when I turned myself inside out and showed him everything there, did me no favors when he opted for someone that was less trouble a week ago I was having sex with the one who started it all, who started the undoing, kept me running in circles for four years until he discarded me when there was no amusement left and he’d found someone ~worth the actual love~ (two hours after my mother woke me up telling me my favorite person in the world was no longer in it) and this one who I am certain I will never hear from again, I told “what happens with me in relationships is they usually start off very well until I win their hatred/indifference.” And the prophecy fulfilled. I can’t be poetic about this, just have to get the thoughts out exactly as they come. it is just very hard to not be heartbroken. I’m in a bed in a city alone wanting to do so much harm and they are all happy in themselves and others and I can’t seem to not be heartbroken about it. goddamn broken up about it.
“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”—